


Summoning

by narsus



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Consensual Violence, Crossdressing, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 06:22:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20003731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: In which Crowley summons a demon and Hell, like other corporations, clearly has grand strategic plans.





	Summoning

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, respective estates, publishers etc.

He’d started to realise sometime around the eighteenth century when Hastur turned up to rescue him from an occultist.

He’d been trapped by a bit of black magic, bad luck and the sheer force of human stupidity. Not that it had really helped the occultist in any way. All Crowley had done was hiss and curl up in the summoning circle. He’d also refused to put on any clothes once it became obvious that his nakedness was unsettling to said occultist.

He’d been napping, on and off, in the circle for about a week when Hastur had turned up.

The eighteenth century had been a good look for Hastur. Crowley had to admit that the whole cravat and cuffs setup had worked really well for Hastur. He’d even looked… dashing.

“Come here.” Hastur had held a hand out imperiously.

And just like that the summoning circle and all the magic that had held it together, won though blood, tears and at fair portion of the occultist’s soul, had just disintegrated. Crowley had simply walked through the dust and delicately placed his hand in Hastur’s. He’d been rewarded with the smell of burning human flesh behind him and, oddly, suddenly finding himself wearing a gown the likes of which even the Marquise de Merteuil might have envied.

Intermittently, across the centuries, Hastur just seemed to turn up, at the right time in the right place, and then invariably Crowley found himself wearing a peplos or a chima jeogori or a bustle.

Hastur seemed to have liked the nineteen-twenties, as Crowley recalls, having acquired an extensive wardrobe of flapper dresses, complimented with enough diamonds to feed a mid-sized nation, as a result.

Except now, in a decade not so far removed from that, Hastur really seems to have let himself go. The last few times Crowley’s seen him he’s been wearing a torn suit that looks slept in and doesn’t seem to have brushed his hair in months. Something, Crowley decides, is definitely wrong. He’s just not sure what to do about it or even if he should do anything at all.

The hierarchy of Hell could be more than a little bit obscure at first glance but it is generally structured in the same way as other large corporations. Hell is, in a sense, publicly traded after all. There are ranks that run to the Medieval, hence dukes and princes rather than directors and executive directors. There are a few quirks like the lake of fire and the screams of the damned, but mostly the gleaming black towers, the turnstiles and lifts wouldn’t look too out of place at any type of immoral self-interested corporation.

Crowley has had sex on the large polished desk in Hastur’s precise and unsettling office where all the angles are just a little bit… off. He’s been fucked on the big leather sofa where he accidently put a foot through the coffee table. Slammed up against the strangely cold glass walls with such force that they’ve cracked. He’s seen the obligatory blood pools just clear themselves up because they’d ruin the finish, seen the occasional horrified face be swallowed back up into the leather of the couch, seen the strange misty glass, that very likely also contains trapped souls, just up and repair itself with a shriek. He knows how precise and unsettling and violent and neurotic Hastur can be. So this unwashed, uncaring, _inelegant_ version of Hastur that he’s seen the last time few times is entirely disconcerting.

He’s still fretting over the problem days later. Standing in the roof-top garden that his flat has recently acquired, clutching a cup of coffee and wearing a satin nightdress. He’s clearly set out the bait but Crowley does wonder if, just perhaps, he’s gone too far. Then the satin changes itself to silk, his hair is suddenly much longer and he’s wearing a pair of ridiculously high heels.

“You called?” Comes the familiar voice from behind him.

Crowley closes his eyes as Hastur’s hands settle on his waist. The coffee cup vanishes and Crowley is tumbled down onto a rattan sofa that now fits neatly into the garden. He opens his eyes. The Hastur on top of him is wearing his customary dove grey suit, white shirt and loosened tie that looks like it could be from any number of well-connected schools. He’s also clean. Everything looks freshly dry-cleaned and starched and ironed. Crowley reaches up and runs is fingers through Hastur’s hair; it also feels clean and washed.

“What’s-“

“I’m going to fuck you senseless is what’s going on.”

After, Crowley sits on the couch alone, having retrieved his cup of coffee with is now hot again. He’s sore and aching in so many places that the extent of lifting the cup to his lips seems to be about all he can manage for the next half hour.

It makes sense in the end he supposes. Hell, like other corporations, runs based on direction and strategy from the higher ups. Lord Lucifer probably gets quarterly reports. Crowley being where he is isn’t privy to those sorts of conversations. Still, he doesn’t have to like it. It seems excessive if they’re sending a duke of Hell to get directly involved in things. Except maybe Heaven is doing something similar. He’s seen the archangel Michael going into a fur shop in Knightsbridge recently after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Good Omens by way of Hellraiser and a few other things.
> 
> With reference to [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19833574) again.


End file.
